


Vagabondage (the Trust Fall remix)

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Choking, M/M, Remix, Trust Kink, consensual and sane but not safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you take into account the things they do as a team for a day job, the fact that they have each other’s backs for the logistics of random hook-ups is pretty much the most normal part of their relationship.</p><p>So if Dean wants to get tied up as part of that? Sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkat/gifts).



> Bondage, trust-play, choking, sibling incest. When I drew Rivkat for RemixRedux 11 I promptly had to go and have a sit down and hyperventilate a little bit with excitement, but picking a fic to remix was easy - this is hands-down my favourite of Rivkat's stories and I've always wanted the Sam POV on it. I hope I've done it something approaching justice!

It's like Dean's allergic to serious conversations. Sam's just trying to, y'know, talk to him, like people do, and Dean keeps deflecting it with dumb stories about his hook-ups like he thinks that's what Sam wants to hear, like Sam hasn't _been_ hearing about Dean's sexcapades since he was a kid.

Retaliating's only fair. So Sam jumps in feet first, ups the ante from Dean's lame truckstop blowjob sagas to the way Jess used to tie him up the bed and go wild with him, and then innocently, casually, mouth still half on his drink, asks, 'You ever do anything like that?' He mostly wants to see if maybe Dean will tell him something new. He's expecting a laugh or a joke or a the gory details of a three day weekend with some handcuffs involved -

But Dean shakes his head, like he's taking it seriously. 'No. Don't get me wrong, I've stuck it everywhere it'll go,' he says, and Sam can believe that, '- and in just about every position they got in the Kama Sutra. But a thing like that—tied up, maybe some choking—you'd have to trust someone an awful lot, right? And I never -'

Sam has to actually shut his mouth, which has kind of dropped open, and Dean stops talking. 'What?' he demands.

Rallying, Sam shrugs, tries to laugh it off. 'Just, dude. I've seen your porn,' he says, which is the truth.

Dean rolls his eyes. 'What, I can't have fantasies? Look, I do something crazy unsafe, it's gotta be hunting evil. Otherwise it's just stupid.'

And … and there's that serious conversation Sam wanted.

Sam always thought that sex was how Dean got his head _out_ of the game, how he blew off steam, and it turns out even when he should be getting his rocks off, this is the way he thinks? Does Dean even _have_ an off-switch?

'There are ways. If you wanted,' says Sam in a rush. Because it’s not fair, that Dean has something he wants, something so stupid and little that a million people can do it, but he hasn't. Dean's asked for fucking shit-all out of life and he's got almost none of it, and Sam hates that. They got out of the Apocalypse and Sam's sworn to himself that this fucking self-sacrificing martyr shit has got to go, and maybe that starts with them letting themselves have the things they want. 'I know we're not gonna settle down. But there are places, online, you can find people who want to do that. And I could, you know, make sure it's safe. Screen them, watch out for you.' He looks at Dean from under his lashes, the kid-brother look, desperately willing Dean to go along with it.

Sam wants to do this so bad, suddenly, that it's like an itch. It's something he can give Dean. And it wouldn't exactly be a big deal. It wouldn't be that weird, y'know.

Sam’s first inkling of what sex was, see, was that it was something Dean did. Too young to understand, sure as shit too young to see or hear the things he saw and heard, but whatever. Dean tried to sneak around but Sam was a nosy kid, and privacy’s pretty much a fever dream when you live out of a car. And then he got older, and they both had enough near misses to figure out that ‘don’t split up’ included ‘even for sex’, so Sam did his homework by flashlight in the Impala, outside motel rooms with Dean’s lit-up silhouette in the window – Dean lurked round the back of Sam’s prom, drove him home much later, ruffled his hair back into place and fixed his tie when Sam was too flushed and flustered with weird pride to do it himself. Dean’d play on the wing for Sam if Sam ever actually wanted him to, he knows it, and Sam’s followed Dean’s cues when he’s being an agent or a talent scout or a surgeon or a soldier, because why not?

When you take into account the things they do as a team for a day job, the fact that they have each other’s backs for the logistics of random hook-ups is pretty much the most normal part of their relationship.

So if Dean wants to get tied up as part of that? Sure. Sam just wants him to be happy and be alive, and for them to be a team still. If this is what it takes, then this is what it takes.

'You'd - You'd do that?' Dean asks, a little wobbly over it somehow.

'Yeah,' Sam shrugs, because seriously, no big deal. 

***

Sam stops bothering to clear his browser cache, and starts doing some research, both into exactly what Dean might be looking for, and into the logistics of how to get it for him. He doesn't say anything more, because it's not weird that he's doing this but it would be super weird to actually talk about it, but he doesn't need to for most of it, anyway. It's not like the things he usually researches are talkative either, y'know? And Dean leaves him a nice, clear trail.

Dean's always had an extensive and varied interest in porn, which Sam knows because a) he used to walk in to it on the TV or b) Dean used to leave it lying around and currently c) they share a laptop. Since their little heart-to-heart, Dean starts getting focused. Sam does his research at the laptop with a notepad, pages divided into two with a rough slash of pen down the middle - yes and no - and a pen, and his bottom lip between his teeth, and sometimes with a hard-on because let's face it, he's a red-blooded guy and it's porn. He watches anything Dean leaves in his history, and the first list quickly fills up. 

Gangbangs are a no, no matter how many videos Dean leaves lying around. Sam's confident he can take on anyone, anything, but more than one other person in the room is too many variables, too much to watch out for. So he's veto-ing that. And no gags, either. Sam won't be watching, so he'll have to rely on Dean to let him know if it's going okay. Fortunately, he knows Dean's sex-noises and Dean's hurt-noises well enough to tell them apart, even with his back turned. 

Cuffs goes on the Yes column. Dean's whole thing is being tied down, and there's maybe a slight majority of videos that feature cuffs over anything else, although Dean's viewing pleasure also includes ropes, scarves, ties, manacles, zip-ties (no. Just no,) and, on one occasion, a pair of women's panties, being used as restraints. But cuffs … cuffs can be padded. Cuffs can have quick-releases, and cuffs can also be a lot harder to get out of than most other things. Sam likes the logistics of cuffs that way. He can check them. He can put them on, be sure Dean won't get them off, but also be sure that they _can be_ got off fast, by Sam, in case of emergency. 

The URLs of a couple of online sex-stores that have a good, broad selection of padded cuffs go on to a second list that Sam starts keeping. He looks at them all, clicking pictures over and over, trying to imagine them on Dean's wrists. He wants strength above all else - Dean won't go for something flimsy and fluffy he could break out of. Dean's not looking to suspend disbelief, and Sam suspects he doesn't quite care it it hurts, but Sam does. Sam wants to be able to snap restraints closed and know they'll hold Dean down exactly the way he needs them to. 

Dirty-talk goes on the Yes column as well, seeing as it seems to turn up in most of Dean's video choices, and it's harmless. Sam's not quite sure he can actually picture a girl calling Dean a dirty slut, true, but whatever. Sticks and stones, blah blah blah. And on that topic, the slapping around that goes with the dirty talk in two out of every three videos? That's on the no column. Even the kind of party-girl Dean usually likes can do damage if she decides to put her back into it. Sam won't risk it. 

The _third_ list fills up with acronyms for the things on the first list, and other housekeeping, most of which Sam can, will, and is taking care of himself. But he does kind of need Dean for some bits. 

He runs the advertisement he's written, all those acronyms, past Dean for a start. They just don't make eye contact while Sam explains what he's written, and that's okay, and then Dean mutters something about _doesn't have to just be girls_ and Sam swallows hard, and says, 'yeah, sure' in a voice that sounds like his freaking balls haven't dropped yet. He wants to ask. He really badly wants to ask a lot of questions. But he can't make this weird, he just can't. Dean doesn't deserve that, not now that they're finally talking again. So Sam scratches out one set of letters and subs in another, easy as pie, another can of worms he's going to sweep under the rug, or whatever.

'We done?' Dean asks gruffly.

Sam risks a peek and his brother is beet-red. They probably both are, he can feel his own face burning. He coughs awkwardly, because he wishes they _were_ done but there's one more thing. 'I, uh, you need a picture,' he confesses. 

'We got a bunch for making IDs with, use one of those,' Dean says. 

'No, like ...' Sam is not saying the words dick pic to his own brother, he is not. He is _not_. Dean finally actually looks at him, and Sam gestures sort of helplessly between his own collarbones and knees, and Dean raises an eyebrow, and Sam says, 'there's this website -'

Except Dean's phone camera is crappy, and the motel mirror is dirty, and okay maybe Sam didn't exactly plan on taking the photo himself but he doesn't want Dean to look _diseased_ on Craigslist, and anyway it's nothing he hasn't seen before, Dean with his pants around his ankles. So Sam takes the picture, face burning and trying not to look and failing. 

***

Thank fuck, the cuffs arrive in one of their PO boxes before the first email turns up. Sam's already unboxed them, checked them over, inspected the stitching and the padding and oiled the leather just in case, already clicked one around his own wrist and the other around a bedpost to test them. They hold him just fine. So that part of the whole thing is ready. 

And now some guy in South Orange is ready too. 

Sam tells Dean, and Dean's eyes glaze over. 'Dean?' For a second, Sam can't tell what this is, if this is a freakout or Dean creaming his pants. 

'Awesome,' Dean says, and it's clear he's ready too. All their freaky bondage ducks are in a row. Dean's gonna get what he needs and Sam's going to give it to him, finally some turn-about for how Dean's always looked after Sam. 

Sam looks back at his email from this dude who wants to show up and fuck his brother tomorrow night, thinks about cuffs and condoms, prep, rules, vigilance, safety. So much that could go wrong. So much that Dean is trusting him with. He goes through his lists, because more than anything, _he_ has to be ready. 

***

It takes a lot of concentration, tying your naked brother down. Sam's training is yelling at him how easily this could go wrong, so he takes extra time and extra care. The amount of space between the leather and Dean's skin has to be just right. The strain he puts on Dean's arms has to be carefully judged. What fucking good does it do them if Dean gets his rocks off but gets his bad shoulder dislocated again? Sam's jaw's so tight it hurts him. He gets Dean settled and steps back, and immediately Dean throws himself against the cuffs - Sam was right, Dean doesn't want a fake and he doesn't care if it hurts. When he finally lies back down again Sam lets himself look at Dean's wrists, and they're red but it doesn't look like chafing, and there was no noise of cartilage riding that would tell Sam Dean had popped his goddamn shoulder, so that's okay. 

They're a bit early, maybe, but hey, this gives Sam the time to assess how Dean does, being tied down. He keeps watch on the windows, feels like a perimeter guard, and behind him he can hear Dean very carefully controlling his breathing the way he used to do when they were teenagers, both pretending to be asleep and totally not both jerking off in their beds. And that's dumb, because Dean's _supposed_ to be getting off on this. What, does he think he has to hide? Still? 

Sam rolls his eyes at his reflection in the window. Dean is a dumbass. 

Headlights sweep into view. Five minutes late. Might be their guy, might not. And there's a long enough pause before the knock at the door comes that Sam's actually startled by it. The bed creaks violently too, like Dean's just as taken by surprise. 

Sam unlocks the door. Here goes nothing, right?

The dude on the other side looks okay. Clean clothes, shaven, shoes not dirty. Short, as in, shorter even than Dean, maybe five eight, five nine if he stood all the way up. Not afraid to look Sam in the eye though, as he says 'Just Visiting?' Which is good. Shy can't give Dean what he needs. 

Sam nods and stands aside. 

The stranger's holy-shit-no-way type reaction to seeing Dean makes Sam feel weirdly smug. _Damn straight, my brother's out of your league and you better appreciate that._ But that's not the speech he needs to give. He grabs at their visitor's arm before he can get any further into the room, and doesn't have to dig deep to find the 'so help me God, if you hurt him I will end you' voice. He can't help squeezing his fingertips into the guy's bicep while he uses it. 'Just a reminder. Use a condom. Dirty talk is okay, pain isn't. Safe word is 'black,' and I'm just here to make sure you follow the rules.'

'Yeah, sure,' is the response, but it's distracted. Not dismissive, and if Sam thought it was he'd chuck the dude out on his ass, but … distracted. Right. This isn't about Sam. 

Which means this is Sam's cue to turn around. 

***

They only get guys responding. Sam guesses it makes sense. He rereads his ad and realises that if he were a girl he'd look at the set-up and see a potential trap, or at the very least, something too good to be true - a free ride, carte blanche with a dude whose pic makes him out to be hot stuff … but two dudes, cheap motel room and restraints don't sound like something a sensible woman would walk into. 

And Dean gets off just fine on the guys, if Sam's any judge. Sam's yes and no list is still actively changing, refining - yes to big, yes to rough, yes to going down on Dean at any point in the proceedings (the sloppy noises and Dean's reactions are hard to mistake). The no's are harder to pick, at least from Dean's point of view, because Dean doesn't exactly protest when things aren't going his way, and Sam knows damn well he clamps down on his non-verbal cues too, like he thinks Sam's gonna shut this down if he's not 100% up for everything, when Sam just wants to _fine-tune_ things. 

So Sam has to find other criteria for judging what's a yes and what's a no. He has to make a few judgement calls of his own.

He puts 'talking' on the no list one night after their visitor just will not stop with the small talk, asking Sam things about where they're from and how long they're staying, even though Dean's lying there panting and covered in his own fucking jizz. He _thanks Sam_ for being allowed to fuck Dean, like Sam's the one giving permission here, like now that he's had his fun Dean's not even worth acknowledging anymore, and that makes Sam crazy.

Sam just wants to let Dean out of the cuffs, but first he has to get rid of this jackass. Tying Dean up and setting him free, they're _Sam's job_. Dean trusts him to do those things, and Sam does not want an audience. It's not safe, he decides angrily, having someone around who would rather exchange pleasantries than see Dean cared for. So from now on, no more fucking talking.

Sam gets rid of the guy by letting the frustration of his stupid biological reaction to having to listen to two people fucking take over, snapping at him to 'have a nice night' and basically slamming the door in his face.

He can't let Dean see how hard he is, though, so just like every time he lets Dean out (both wrists now, to check for rubbing himself, because you can't rely on Dean to let you know when he's hurting and this is the only thing Sam's allowed to touch), and then practically bolts for the shower. His hand is around his dick before the water even heats up, his forehead is against the tiles and he's willing himself to let it go. _Just fucking let go, Sam. Yes, he's your brother and yes, you tie him up for anonymous sex and yes, sometimes the people who answer the ads are going to think they need to engage in a little small talk afterwards to prove they're not just random douchebags, and yes, fuck, of course they're going to think you're Dean's boyfriend or something, that this is a mutual kink you got going on. It's_ logical _, Sam._

_And that's another thing,_ he snarls at himself while he jerks his dick, wet from leaking in his underwear and from the tepid shower but not enough to keep the action from being harsh. _This isn't about_ you _. This is about giving Dean something he needs for once. So if you can't stop it happening then you need to be more fucking subtle about this part, okay?_

He whimpers, bites his fist to keep quiet. Dean's out there. Dean's picking himself up and putting himself back together and he probably really wants a shower and Sam's using up all the hot water imagining …no, not imagining, God, he wouldn't -

Sam just hears things, is all. Hears everything. And tonight's chatty-Cathy visitor hadn't got all the good noises, y'know? He'd done a fair job, Sam supposes, but Sam's heard how Dean sounds when someone's _really_ getting him going. Sam knows so much that he's got no application for and his brain choreographs things that make him hard enough to pound nails over it.

Dean's footsteps pause outside the bathroom door, like he's going to knock. Like he might come in here, see this.

Sam's orgasm chokes him into a noise he didn't mean to make. 

Dean's footsteps don't pick up again until Sam, panting, gritting his teeth through the aftershocks, resisting the urge to punch the wall because _fuck_ he should never have let that happen, shuts the water off. 

This goes under the list of housekeeping things Sam can take care of without talking to Dean

***

They're waxing the Impala when Dean asks, 'How come when they say thanks, it's always to you? I mean, I'm _right there_.'

Sam slams down on the impulse to lie and say he doesn't know, doesn't have a clue. _Guess it's just one of those things, haha._ And he can't say, 'because dude, I write the ad, I answer the emails, I give them the speech. As far as they can see, I'm the one giving them the permission, so I'm the one they thank.'

God no, he can't say that. He's trying to make a point of not lying to Dean any more but laying out the whole truth and nothing but the truth is not always, y'know, a good move.

'I guess they think you're mine,' he says instead.

It's _some_ of the truth, at least.

***

'You can whack it in the room if you want,' says Dean, and Sam nearly bites his tongue in half where he'd been clicking it silently against the roof of his mouth and trying to decide if these trolls were real or if someone had been having an epic acid trip and had mean friends.

He blinks at the screen of his laptop. The acid trip theory is the more logical one, really. Although trolls would be cool. 

Dean's still looking at him over a mostly-reassembled gun. 

Sam should probably say something. He has to work some moisture back into his mouth first though, and then what comes out is, 'That'd be ... okay with you?'

And Dean doesn't even look that bothered when he says, 'Honestly? It'd be kind of reassuring. I mean, talk about letting it all hang out, right?'

Sam swallows hard and makes … some noise that he hopes counts as an affirmative, because there isn't enough blood going to his brain right now for him to make words properly. 

The trolls turn out to actually be PCP-crazed teenagers, which in Sam's quite broad experience is way rarer than it being honest-to-God monsters, but makes it very much not a Winchester problem. They find a couple of ghosts instead, which fills some time, and Sam gets another email, and this time he gets hard as soon as the cuffs click around Dean's wrists, and doesn't have to look away after, can match up the sounds with the visual. 

It's still out of the corners of his eyes, because he's not going to fucking outright stare, this is just to let off naturally-building steam, he's still just supervising, but it's hard not to notice the perfect arch of Dean's back when he's getting drilled into, or how he yanks against the ropes and cuffs holding him down. And how when he's very close, he wrenches his head to one side, eyes half-closed, glazed over, to look at Sam. Or at least to look in Sam's direction. 

Sam has to squeeze his eyelids shut to not make eye contact, but it's enough. His dick jerks in his fist, and he can't help the noises that slip out. Dean groans like he's been stabbed and Sam knows he's coming too.

He barely even notices the fuck of the week finishing, zipping up, saying thanks, leaving. He's got no eyes for anything but Dean, and he can't look at him. Sam's still shaking with the aftershocks - they both are - when he lets Dean free.

***

Seeing is believing. And now that Sam's allowed to look, he has to face reality.

Dean's beautiful. Sam's always known it. Big green eyes, soft mouth, freckles, he got the whole package and when Sam was growing up he felt so much like the ugly, gawky duckling of the family that he couldn't _help_ noticing what made people stop and look at Dean, what made girls smile at him, kiss him in supply closets, come home with him and make noises Sam wasn't supposed to hear. 

Now Sam gets to watch, see Dean's eyes close, see him bite his lip shut until that mouth pouts with the red from broken capillaries, see those freckles stand out against the blush of arousal and the white of strain, and because Sam isn't lying to himself anymore he can think, can know, that he wants to be the person that makes Dean feel like that, helpless in a safe place, hurt him with care. These guys, they do a good enough job, but Sam could do better. And Dean deserves better.

It's almost a relief when Dean asks for a blindfold, because then he won't be able to see.

***

Dean has been tied up for nearly twenty minutes, and Sam's aware of the fact that he's grinding his teeth. He hates it when people aren't punctual. It's not hard. And now he has to judge - is this just lateness, or has tonight's arrangement fallen through? Has he cuffed Dean to the bed, put all that strain on him, made him think he's gonna get something he wants, all for nothing? Did he fuck up in his judgement?

By this point Sam isn't sure who hates it when they get a no-show more - him or Dean. 

He can hear Dean fidgeting. He still tries not to look too much, even though Dean's blindfolded, because they have an understanding about what they're doing here, Dean trusts him, and Sam ogling Dean without Dean's knowledge feels like breaking that somehow. 

Their visitor should have been here by now. Sam can't help the urge to growl at the thought of someone leaving Dean hanging like this, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean's head turn towards him in question. 'Ten minutes late,' he explains. He feels like he should apologise. 

Dean's posture is all tight frustration. He wants this, Sam can tell - he's been looking forward to it all day, been good-mood-y and a little bit buzzed, anticipatory. 'Five more and I'm calling it,' he says, though, like he's already steeling himself for disappointment.

It's not fair. Getting someone worked up like this and then not going through with it. Sam feels like it's his fault, too, because he figured this one sounded genuine and went ahead with the reply and the organisation, he told Dean it was happening, he tied Dean down … and now he's going to have to untie Dean and let him go rub one out in the shower, and if anyone knows just how not-satisfying that is, it's Sam. 

This … this situation is unfair. Wrong. The whole point of this is that Dean gets satisfied. The whole point of this is that it's on Sam to make that happen. Dean _trusts him_ to make that happen. 

Unless Sam does something, he's going to let Dean down, and … and he can't. He just can't. Not when he knows he can do something. 

The knowledge of what he's about to do settles into Sam's stomach like a lead slug. 

'Hang on,' he says through numb lips, and goes outside. The talk. He has to give the talk, right? Otherwise Dean will pick up on the difference from normal. 'Dirty talk is okay,' he mutters to himself. 'Pain isn't. Safeword is 'black'.' He knows all this. He's given this speech a dozen times - but never to himself. 'Follow the rules,' he snarls at himself. He's pacing, up and down the little walkway between rooms like it's the edge of a precipice and he's trying not to fall. 'Follow the fucking rules.'

He's taken long enough. Dean's been tied up at least fifteen minutes longer than Sam's planned for already tonight. Sam needs to keep this moving along. 

He goes back inside, and looks, and can't help his mouth falling open on a heavy breath, because as soon as Dean hears footsteps he's fucking _preening_ , flexing, he's displaying himself like this, naked and vulnerable and ready for whatever Sam has to give him. Sam swallows hard, dumps his shirts, wrenches his belt open, kicks off his trousers, is on the bed maybe faster than he's ever moved before. 

Dean's spread out under him, ready, exactly where Sam put him half an hour ago. And now that he's here, Sam doesn't even know where to _start_. He just knows what he's seen other people do to Dean, what he's seen in Dean's porn, he knows there are targets to hit here and he's going to find them and bullseye every. Single. One. 

Sam noses at Dean's neck, shudders, and nips, sinking his teeth in, hungry for a taste and for the way he knows Dean sounds when someone skirts the edge of the 'no pain' rule, which was never exactly Dean's rule to start with. Sam knows Dean likes this, and … and he can be sure that he knows the boundaries, right? 

Dean's shocky reaction isn't quite what Sam expected, though. Dean gasps and struggles against Sam's teeth, but he's moaning under his breath, he's not safewording. He must have worked it out, he _must_ have, and so Sam stays where he is and pushes Dean down to stop him straining. His arms must hurt, and Sam doesn't want that, gentles his bite to a suck and starts to massage at Dean's biceps. _Please,_ Sam wills him. _Just let me give you this. Let me help you._ He pushes his thumbs along the knotted lengths of Dean's muscles, pushing the edge of pain til they soften, and slowly Dean comes back down and his heart doesn't slow down but his breathing calms.

Sam can't let that spot on Dean's neck go, wants to make it fucking clear that he's been here, that he's doing this. His hips are starting to pulse involuntarily, searching for friction against his brother's sweat-wet body, when Dean's face turns, until Sam can feel Dean's breath in his ear.

'Please,' Dean says, the echo of Sam's desperation to be understood. 'Anything you want. I want it.'

'Fuck,' Sam groans. Because Dean, he doesn't ask. He doesn't ever ask. He takes what people give. 'Dean -'

'Yeah, S-' and Sam doesn't want to hear his name, this isn't about him, and so he clamps back down on the mark he's making in Dean's skin, desperately dragging his hands over Dean, and it feels like the aftermath of a hunt, like he's checking Dean for injury. But that's not it. All those men Sam let in here, all those men Sam let at Dean, all those men who tried but never quite got it right, Sam has to wipe that away, start again, do it better. Sam has to be what Dean needs.

Dean squirms when Sam rubs at his hips, he's panting, but Sam knows he doesn't want to get away, not really. Sam knows too much, even though Sam doesn't know half the things he wants to. But he's going to find out. Find out how Dean feels inside. Find out how he feels wet, with Sam _making_ him wet, because maybe there was a no-condoms rule, just like the no-pain rule, but that one came from Sam too. Dean never said - and he trusts Sam to know what he needs. Right? Things can always change from no to yes. Sam can always rejig. 

Dean's hot around Sam's fingers, and that noise, that one there, Sam can finally link up to the act of pressing inside him, finding his prostate, and the one after it Sam already knows means _fuck me, fuck me, god, fuck me_ and Sam is never, ever letting anyone else in the world hear that ever again. Possessiveness has always been one of Sam's sins, but looking down at Dean right now he doesn't care, because Dean needs this and he trusts Sam to give it to him, and the best way for Sam to do that is to do it himself. 'I can't wait, Dean,' he begs, at the end of his rope, tugging his fingers out because it's too much like a tease, and he can't take it any more, he'll fucking come all over Dean's ass if he keeps it up much longer. 'Can I? Can I -' he pleads. 

Dean nods, breathless and smiling, and drags Sam in which is good because Sam's too stupid with how bad he wants this to be coordinated enough. Dean's struggling, his legs in a stranglehold around Sam's hips and the sinews in his arms standing out as he fights to bring his hands down, and Sam knows how he feels because it's like it's impossible not to touch Dean right now, and _he_ has that luxury. He shoves his hands onto Dean's shoulders and forces him down, for his own good, fucks him and fucks him and fucks him as hard as he can, can't look away, and he can feel Dean's eyes burning into his even through the blindfold. 

'You're going to come for me,' Sam tells Dean breathlessly, drunk on the power of what he's doing, and Dean does, almost instantaneous, and he clenches so hard that Sam has to push even harder to keep moving, grabbing Dean with all the strength he has, feeling the orgasm build, like all those times he jerked off not-watching don't even count, like this has been coming for months, and maybe it has. Maybe it's been coming for years. Maybe this is what happens when you love someone so much you want to give them everything you have - you want to give them _yourself._

Sam chokes, stutters. Coming is a long, white-out moment of heat and bliss, and when he comes back to himself it's heartbeat by heartbeat, half of them his and half of them Dean's, rabbiting under his ribs. Then Dean moves, shakes his arms, and Sam remembers exactly how they came to be here, what this is.

He reaches up and undoes the cuffs, and at the same time he slips out of Dean's body, and ... and well isn't that just some kind of weird metaphor. Dean's a mess all over, sweat and spunk, but he's Sam's mess now and Sam's practically dying to start the clean-up, the bits he never got to do before. He wants to wash Dean down and put him back together and do this properly, the way he should have been doing it all along. 

Somewhere along the way, he realises, maybe this did become a little bit about him. 

And then Dean asks him a little petulantly if he's heard of condoms and Sam pulls off the blindfold and pushes his luck.

'Anything you want,' he says, leaning down, close enough to kiss, to see Dean's pupils dilate. 'That's what you said,' he reminds Dean. 'And if I want you wet for me, then that's how it's gonna be, isn't it?'

Dean's eyelids flutter as he swallows hard. 'When you put it like that,' he says softly, and underneath Sam Dean's body goes even more pliant, and his dick twitches against Sam's thigh, like he wants more, like he's not done. It's the physical equivalent of 'c'mon, is that all you've got?' 

Sam kisses Dean, soft-mouthed and bossy, and Dean bites back a little. Sam rubs idly at Dean's reddened wrists, and plots. Sam's playbook, all that research he did, all those ideas, is so, so not used up yet.

They may have got this far, but, well, Sam's always looking to fine-tune.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh ... bonus choking!porn scene. Because the idea wouldn't leave me alone. I REGRET NOTHING.

The rain is battering on the rotten-grouted motel room windows, and Sam is watching Dean, watching him finish his last bite of pizza and his bottle of beer, watching him smile, say something about pay-per-view that's half a come-on, and planning. His lists are mostly in his head now. He's got something earmarked for tonight, though. He just needs to find his moment.

Without the intermittent emails to give them the impetus and provide the how and when and where of this … thing they do, they have to figure it out themselves. They spend so much time together anyway, how does this work? How do they swap between brothers, partners, to … to whatever it is you want to call this? What are the signals? They've been reading each other so long that maybe they've lost the trick of how to straight-out ask for something. 

Doesn't stop them, though. 

Sometimes they're too eager for all the prep and choreography of the cuffs and the blindfold - sometimes Sam just wants to fuck Dean in a gas-station bathroom, maybe, or Dean wants to put Sam flat on his back and show him a thing or two (mostly about patience, he says, although Sam calls it being a tease). It isn't always Sam on top and in charge, either - that is a lot of it, but Sam sometimes likes a good deep-dicking as much as the next guy, and when the next guy is _Dean,_ well … 

But mostly Dean likes to be taken care of and Sam likes taking care of him. So Sam works through his lists and Dean laps it up and chucks around ideas for more, and they may or may not have to sacrifice a duffel bag just to keep all their supplies in one place. Tonight, though, that duffel bag stays where it is, kicked under one of the motel room's beds. They're not going to need it, not that Dean knows that just yet. But he doesn't need to. That's the point. Sam's got a plan. Sam's always got a plan. 

See, Sam's been working up to this particular listed item for a while now. And tonight's perfect - they've been stuck inside because of the weather with nothing to do but each other for a few hours already, so all the edges have been taken off, everything's gonna go smooth, just the way Sam likes it. They fucked once already, half-in and half-out of their Fed suits and soaked to their skins, and now they're showered and kinda-dressed because answering the door naked for the pizza delivery boy isn't either of their style … but goddamn, Sam is ready to mess Dean up all over again.

When he goes in for a kiss, Dean immediately holds out his wrists to be cuffed. He knows what he wants. Sam shakes his head, though, because so does he. 'C'mon, Sam,' Dean wheedles. He's already naked to the waist and his fly's hanging open, but he doesn't strip himself these days when he wants to get his pretty little ass tied up - he likes Sam to do it. He stretches himself out against the wall, trying to tempt. But Sam isn't gonna be budged. 'Aren't you forgetting something?'

'Not tying you up this time,' Sam says, shrugging his overshirt off. When he looks up again, Dean's practically pouting. 

'Aww, not even if I say please?'

'What, you don't think I can keep you down without them?' Sam asks softly. He crowds into Dean's space and spreads his hand across Dean's throat.

Dean swallows, relaxes into Sam's shadow, and Sam's blood starts to heat, Dean's faith in him is so strong, it's like a drug. Feeling Dean's larynx bob against his palm shouldn't be this much of a turn-on. 'You think I need help putting you where I want you?' Sam says, pushing Dean's jeans down, nudging until Dean steps out of them, and then kicking them away. He looks at what he's doing, every inch of Dean glowing in the orange, cheap-lightbulb light, and something in his chest goes warm and tight. 

'Fuck, you're so beautiful,' he says without thinking. And his free hand finds its way to Dean's ass, still loose, sloppy, from how they spent the afternoon, kept inside by this storm, wet heat in the air and wet heat between them as Dean rode Sam into the mattress with his hands behind his back, hurried double-overhand in Sam's cheap tie all that was keeping him in line. Don't even need that now, though. Just pressure at the right point. Dean's jugular jumps under the pad of Sam's thumb. 

Sam slides two fingers inside, wet for him just the way he likes it, and Dean gasps. 'Sam -'

'That's it,' Sam coaxes, push-push pull and push-push pull, until Dean's hips are doing the work for him. 'You're perfect,' he murmurs. 'You're so good for me.'

Dean blushes and looks away, rolls his hips up though, and the thick press-drag of his cock against Sam's through Sam's jeans is too much. Gotta be naked. Gotta be naked _now_ , gotta be in him _now_ , so Sam shucks his clothes one-handed and awkward and sometimes maybe he's off balance and sometimes maybe that means that the hand he has on Dean's neck tightens, trying to keep from falling, so by the time Sam's bare, Dean's panting, breath whining in his lungs. 

Sam presses up to him, noses at his temple, and murmurs, 'You ready?' 

'God, yes,' Dean growls. He spreads his legs, tilts his chin up, all defiance. 'Give it to me, Sammy.'

Sam's dirty hand pulls free and finds Dean's wrists, the left then the right, catches them both and yanks them up over Dean's head, against the wall, just a fraction too tall so Dean's straining up, and when Sam pushes in closer Dean's knees come up too. 'You better hold tight,' Sam warns him, and lets go of his throat to grab at his hips, hitch him high, Dean's thighs all the way up to Sam's waist so that the head of Sam's cock ruts in that mess of its own sloppy seconds.

It's the law of gravity that slams Sam home, buries him deep when he lets Dean drop, but his free hand slamming back around Dean's neck is nothing but pure, burning _want_. 

Dean chokes and locks up, goes tight, desperate-virgin tight around Sam but he's rocking up and down with his knees wound around Sam's hips, fucking himself even as Sam braces himself to thrust. The first shove of Sam in deeper, his fingers clenching around wrists and throat, has Dean whining or growling or both, some hybrid breathless sound, and his eyes are rolling up in his head already. Sam eases his weight back. 'Fuck, Dean,' he pants, dragging out and shoving in, 'fuck, that's it,' and he tightens again. Pressure on, pressure off, enough to make Dean fuzz and go liquid in Sam's arms - not enough to make him go limp. It's a fine line. 

Dean gets a breath for every two or three harsh, dragging gasps Sam manages, and Sam can see already they're gonna have to finesse this, they're gonna have to practice - they're gonna do this so much, so so much, as Dean twists on Sam's cock searching for pleasure and his fingers clench and tremble and Sam can feel his bones under his skin and _knows_ how much leverage he has and how long Dean can go without air and how bad he wants to come. 

Sam's having a hard time breathing too. They're barely moving, his legs are trembling, all his focus on Dean under his hands, making this good for Dean, making this be what Dean wants. He lets go of Dean's wrists to get a better hold of him to keep fucking, and Dean's arms end up draped over Sam's shoulders. His eyes are so wide, warm and dark and only the thinnest ring of green and his mouth is bitten to bruises, and Sam kisses him and feels his pulse pound like a desperate bird fighting in his hand, even less oxygen getting past Sam's guard. Dean could get out of this. Sam knows he could. But he stays, he takes it, he _wants it_ and there's nothing in his wide, wet eyes but trust.

 _Gonna come,_ Sam realises, up on his tip-toes pounding Dean's ass, Dean bent-double and held hard to the wall, _gonna come so hard, fuck_ and he tips Dean's head back up, nosing under his jaw, looking him in the eyes. 'You're gonna come for me,' he tells Dean, he never gets tired of saying it, of the way Dean's body responds to him. 'You're gonna fucking lose it all over me,' he snarls, snapping his hips, clenching his fingers around Dean's throat one more time. 'C'mon, Dean. C'mon. Want it. Give it to me, Dean -' and Dean's eyes roll back into his head. 

At the first hot, wet jerk of Dean's cock over his belly, Sam's gone, done, coming in fits and starts and gasping just as fish-out-of-water as Dean is, almost. He crushes himself to Dean, trying to stay standing against the storm breaking between them, sobbing breaths into Dean's hair, and Dean's wheezing and kissing him, soft-mouth sloppy kisses, letting his legs down, slipping free and they're a mess, wet and useless and sliding down the wall. Fuck, Sam loves his brother, so much. Too much, because he catches sight of Dean's neck and it's red and white in finger-shaped patches, and Sam did that to him because Dean wanted it. 

And Sam wanted it because Dean wanted it, because he hadn't even thought about choking his brother until Dean brought it up, but once he had, Sam hadn't been able to _stop_ thinking about it.

Sam noses the fine tendons of Dean's throat and feels him tremble. He bites, just a nip, just the lightest press of teeth, and Dean … Dean leans back, bares his neck for more. Plenty of times Sam's figured Dean'd be the death of him. Now he's starting to figure that's not the curse it used to sound like. 

'You okay?' Dean asks him, voice like he's gargled whiskey and gravel. 

Sam smiles against Dean's skin, sticky and sated and a little bit bruised. 'M'good,' he mumbles. 'M'good.'


End file.
